I missed the hippie era. By the time I visited Haight Street, there was nothing but dark, creepy streets strewn with homeless people. I got a coffee, visited a Dead cover bar and found a place to crash, frustrated.
I could score some bud or whatever I wanted in a fingersnap. I know the lingo, the corners. If I wanted to smoke a joint on Fountain Square, I would. But I haven’t eaten a tomato in a long time. They make me sick. Other people love ’em, grow the plants, give them as gifts, et cetera.
I have trouble talking to buzzing individuals. They appear distant, aloof. But I’ve been told I naturally appear distant, aloof. I’m sure people have trouble reading me. I talk to crack-addicted individuals. Sometimes I give them money. If they’re in withdrawal, they need more drugs. I would.
One fourth of July, my ex-boyfriend took up booze again, then pot, then heroin, disappearing. He’s not dead, because when they’re alive, you don’t hear. When they die, you hear the next day. I have heard, many times.
Smoke up, take pills, drink booze, eat tomatoes, whatever. Some can take it, thrive on it, enjoy it. Some die trying to enjoy it. I stay the course, my course. My course is not my brother’s course. As for laws and Mr. Officer, I don’t need you. I’ve had enough mental citations to last more than a lifetime.